Page 16

16

PENNY

I am jamming out to Grace and Jace’s upbeat album they put out two years ago, feeling the pangs of nostalgia to a time when I was living my best life. I mean, anything has to be better than the doom and gloom feeling that flutters into my conscious thought when I find myself alone.

This is why I listen to music so much. It helps me to feel less isolated.

Puttering around my apartment, I struggle with what to clean next.

I’m running out of stuff to do here without officially moving in, and I’m growing bored. It’s pointless getting too settled yet without the addition of furniture, so I spent the better half of the day grocery shopping at the store next to the building and stocking the fridge, cupboards, and pantry with the essentials.

That’s the perk about living in the city—everything is relatively close. As much as I want to learn how to drive, I don’t really need to yet. Nothing is urgent, except for my desire to feel productive and successful.

I twirl around the space, allowing my skirt to flare about around me, when I hear a light knock on the door, followed by the doorbell. I prance over to the door, check the peephole, and then try to contain my excitement when I see a girl waiting patiently outside. Yes. Finally.

Pulling open the door, I give a polite smile. “Hi. I’m Penny.”

She looks confused. “Hi.” She pushes back her hair, smoothing it behind her ear. “I’m…” She gets distracted by the music blasting through my sound system.

“My roommate,” I finish, nearly bouncing on my feet. She looks harmless and friendly—both plusses. “Do you want to come in?”

“Actually…” She looks around me to see our unfurnished place, and I instantly want to tell her that we can fix it up the way we want. And then she clears her throat and says, “I’m just delivering this”—she hands me an envelope—“for you.”

“Well, that’s super embarrassing.”

Of course, now I see her shirt with the Sky View Apartments logo.

“Aw, don’t sweat it. Can you sign here? It’s certified mail.”

Scribbling my signature, I mumble, “Thanks.”

I wait for her to leave before tearing open the envelope. Pulling out the card inside, it has one word written on it—One.

Weird.

What was the point of going through the trouble of delivering something so uneventful?

I didn’t even think anyone knew I lived here yet.

Looking closer at the envelope, it has my name on it, along with my new address.

Knowing that most people get more junk mail than real mail, I place it into a bin in the kitchen that I’ll start designating for the shred pile.

And then I take the card out and decide to use the back of it to make a shopping and to-do list.

As I brainstorm about the things I still have to do, I remember my other responsibility—maintaining my outpatient therapy sessions.

When I left Soulful Mind, I promised my brothers I would take part in a program. Basically it was a stipulation for being released from the facility.

I don’t want to do it.

Talking about my feelings is not something I particularly enjoy. My counselor’s favorite phrase is—How does that make you feel?

At the time, when I was first brought into the facility, I wasn’t sure how to feel. So many months were spent with Mark on the loose—terrorizing my family members. He haunted my nightmares and still does.

But now he’s in prison. While that is amazing, as long as he takes a breath, I know that he can still have an influence on me. He knows he still has one over me, too, and said as much when I visited him.

I should have never gone to the prison.

I hate him more than anyone else on this planet.

So, how will therapy fix any of these growing feelings of anger? Answering the question—how does that make you feel—is lame.

Like, how would anyone feel after being drugged, their memories being foggy and incoherent, and then to have their predator gloat from behind bars?

My brothers claim I won’t need to testify at trial. But how will Mark Tanner’s body stay behind bars without my testimony? Or Angie’s?

Angie might be strong enough to endure the cross-examination, but I know I won’t. And with her being married to Graham, who has special connections to the whole takedown operation, she won’t need to confess anything.

And Graham won’t allow it anyway.

He says he won’t allow me on the stand either…

But what if he’s wrong? He may think he has control, but I’ve seen too many criminals get released when all the evidence led straight to them.

Mark Tanner’s release will not be the plot twist in this story.

Hell no.

So the lawyer team is right. They need me.

Unfortunately, I could jack this whole thing up. I know I’ll cave at the first sign of tension. I’ll spiral out of control mentally if I’m forced to try to relive the nightmare.

But I’ll only be reliving what the pieces of the puzzle allude to—because I can’t remember much from the horrible night.

And maybe that’s why my brain is protecting me by not remembering.

Maybe recalling the horror will cause me to slip right back into the hellhole that got me sent to a therapy facility in the first place.

So in order to keep functioning in the real world while Mark Tanner awaits his trial, I’m going to need to make the effort to hold up my end of the bargain and attend a session. It’s already set up. I just need to show up.

But showing up is the hardest part.

Looking at the clock, I worry I’ll be late.

Grabbing my purse, I run down the hallway toward the elevator. I hit the button and check the time on my phone. I should still be okay.

When the elevator doors open, I step inside and am shocked to find a man there. My heart stops as I glance to his scarred hands, wincing and squeezing my eyes shut. Shit.

Why does this keep happening?

“Miss?” His voice is gruff. Deep.

“I, um,” I stutter. I take a couple of steps back, only opening my eyes wide enough to see the floor, as my neck refuses to gain the strength to pick my head back up. “I’ll take the stairs.”

I pivot and rush into the stairwell, instantly feeling the pangs of claustrophobia.

And utter embarrassment…

Taking five deep breaths, I try to settle my growing unease.

This is the prime example of why I need forever therapy. It’s because I’m a freak, and deep down, I doubt I’ll ever be whole again.

It doesn’t matter where I am—Mark will find me. He’s haunting me like a ghost, looking for a host to give that nightmarish night back its life.

I don’t want to keep being his victim.

I force myself down the stairs. And when I finally get to the lobby, my blisters are crying from the abuse.

“Miss Hoffman,” the lobby attendant says. “Can I please help you?”

Adamantly, I shake my head. “I’m just a bit overwhelmed. No cause for alarm.”

The person behind the welcome desk joins his coworker, squats down beside me as I slump into the oversized chair. “Miss? Can we get you anything? Water? A snack?”

No. And the fact that these two workers already know my name is alarming enough, and they could very well be on the bodyguard squad’s payroll. Just your everyday heroes saving one panicked girl at a time.

Feeling like a loser, I peel myself off the cushions, give the men a reassuring smile, and then walk over to the water dispenser to pour myself a cup of chilled water. I don’t even think I drank anything today.

Glancing outside the main doors, I see the scarred hands man enter into an awaiting taxi. He didn’t deserve my horror, and the thought that I caused him emotional harm makes my stomach twist.

Not every man I encounter is Mark Tanner.

Not every person with scars is Mark Tanner’s minion.

Feeling the need to move, I make my way outside into the fresh summer air.

“Miss Hoffman! Please…”

I turn to see the apartment building worker shadowing me. This is just obnoxious. “Yeah?” I need some time by myself.

“I’m under strict”—he pauses where the word orders should have been said which only adds to my suspicions—“I would love to assist you in any way and to see that you have safe travels. If you could simply afford me the opportunity to adequately do my job, then…”

“I’m going to walk,” I say with certainty.

The worker keeps his irritation at my refusal in check, teetering most likely on the edge of dropping his professional facade and going straight to military tactics. Collins and my brothers only hire the most drill-sergeanty people.

Every ounce of his willpower is being challenged, and I’m the one delivering the test. I watch the vein in his neck as it pulses manically, momentarily distracting me from my initial fight.

Without being granted permission, I walk down the street and into a nondescript commercial building, leaving my entourage behind.

The good thing about my therapy sessions in the city is that they are discreet and held in a rented-out office space—not a facility with the huge title blaring across the door. I can slip in and out of my session and not feel like everyone knows what I’m doing.

There shouldn’t be a stigma over caring for your mind—yet there is.

Sure, my entire family knows I need to partake in my recovery protocol, but I don’t need them involving themselves in my matters anymore or the entire world finding out.

I don’t need a caregiver, and I sure as fuck don’t need a bodyguard.

Having that level of eyes on me just freaks me out.

I hate feeling like someone is watching me.

When I enter Room 536, Margo is waiting for me. I’m a few minutes late, but I doubt she’ll say anything about it. No one wants to rattle me or make me snap. It’s annoying.

Margo and I met prior to my discharge to get acquainted while still in Seattle, so I’m already at ease.

“Glad to see you, Penny.”

I give a small smile. “I’m just following the rules.”

Margo lets out a laugh. She doesn’t look like the typical therapist one would encounter, and I’ve seen enough of them to know she is different.

Maybe that’s why I like her best. She doesn’t put up with my crap.

“So you came for a sticker on your reward chart. Got it.”

I shrug and then full-on giggle. “Only if they are the good kind. I want the ones that are scented.”

“Only the best for you,” she agrees, and I instantly relax. “Take a seat.”

I join her across from a round wooden table that overlooks the city. The building is full of start-up businesses, a coffee shop, and a marketing company. Any empty space, I assume is for things like this—freelance meetings.

Getting comfortable, I cross my feet at my ankles and settle in as much as I can for a medium-tier office chair.

“How have things been going?”

My shoulders lift in response. “Okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yup. Just okay.”

“So they suck.”

I give Margo a look. “Some days, yes.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, I love it. Sucky days are my fave.”

“Penny…”

“Margo…”

“You need to work with me.”

“You need to ask better questions, because if you only knew how badly I don’t want to be here, then you might consider making it worth staying.”

Margo leans back in her chair. “Why are your days sometimes sucky?”

“Because I feel like an outsider in this world.”

“Hmm…so do I.”

“Well, that isn’t helpful as my therapist.”

“Isn’t being honest the number one road to success?”

I shrug. “I guess so.”

“Then I was just being honest. But are you?”

We go back and forth on our banter—seconds turning into minutes—and then finally the dam breaks and I burst into tears, sharing how every man who resembles Mark makes me freak. I explain that being in a closed-in space with a stranger—specifically a man—freaks me out. I express the fear that I’ll never get over him and how stupid I was to visit him at prison. That entire trip there was a disaster waiting to happen, and I did that to myself.

Because I’m a masochist.

I share that I think I left the facility too soon but I’m too in love with not being there to ever go back.

I spill it all… Every fear. Every panic moment. And every bit of false hope that the future could be somehow different.

We talk.

I break.

We talk some more.

And once my tears have dried up, I don’t even realize that seventy minutes have passed—twenty minutes past my session limit.

“I’m proud of you, Penny. You did amazing today.”

I want to snap back for her not to patronize me. I want to respond sarcastically. I want to make some silly joke.

But I don’t.

Because I’m proud of me too.

“So now what?” I ask. “What should I work on?”

“You work on walking into your future as a warrior who has done battle but has already won.”

“Umm, how do I do that?”

“You make a goal list of the things you want, and you start conquering them off that list one by one.”

And who would have thought I was the overachiever without even realizing it.

I nod. “I can do that.”

Margo levels with me. “Of course you can. Because you are stronger than anything that has happened to you in your past. It’s not about forgetting those memories. It’s about forgiving yourself for what you think you failed at. You didn’t fail, Penny. You persevered.”

I persevered.

“And maybe get some guy friends. And rewrite your brain from thinking all men are assholes to all men have assholes.”

“Ha… I’d be happy with a female friend first.” It’s on my goal list after all.

“Baby steps.”

“Got it.”

After Margo and I say goodbye, I head out of the building and decide to go for a walk at the river. At least I’m not too late to enjoy the sunset on the water. Picking up food from the food truck that waits in the same place every single day, I enjoy my Mediterranean rice bowl.

I have what I want—independence.

And yet I am consumed with a fierce loneliness.

I miss Collins.